


Mistaken

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Episode Related, Gap Filler, M/M, No Slash, Points of View, Romance, Season/Series 03, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-20
Updated: 2004-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: You think maybe it was a mistake leaving Brian, and you wonder if he knows it, too; 301-308, redux.





	Mistaken

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

You leave Brian because he can't give you what you need - rather, you have all these ideas about what a relationship is "supposed" to be, and once you start comparing what yours is to what other people say it should be, you become dissatisfied.

Ethan promises you things - romantic, sappy things that Brian never could or didn't want to - and you make yourself believe them because it's your last hope to cling to. You want to be able to say, "this is how my boyfriend and I celebrated Valentine's Day", or "he tells me he loves me all the time". You hate having to explain why what you have works - you just want a perfect relationship without the muss and fuss of constantly interpreting, of always reading between the lines. Everyone else has one, or thinks that they should, you tell yourself, so why should you be any different? 

You feel strange crawling into Ethan's bed on the first night that you've definitively moved out from under Brian's wing and into your new *boyfriend's* arms. It's not just because the mattress is lumpy or that Ethan's apartment is much smaller than Brian's loft, or that the entire place smells vaguely of cat, which irritates your allergies (not that you would ever admit this); it's the fact that you feel kind of detached. Numb, because you've just left Brian standing in the middle of the dance floor at Babylon and gone with the guy you've been fucking behind his back for a few weeks; angry because Brian could have helped you avoid all of this if he'd only thrown you a bone once in a great fucking while; and disgusted with yourself because Ethan loves you, and you shouldn't be making love to him feverishly while still cresting along on the last remnants of your revenge-heartbreak-Brian-centric high. 

You wake up the next morning to violin music that's just a little bit grating to your ears at 7 AM, and chocolate that probably has a high enough fat content to choke a small horse, but you listen and indulge anyways, all while trying to think of how Brian would have shit if there were crumbs in his bed, and how you actually found his slightly obsessive-compulsive tendencies rather endearing. Ethan grumbles when you tell him that you have to go to the loft to retrieve some of your things, and you both flinch when you very nearly call it "home", and then quickly replace the word with "Brian's place". There's something about the new title that sends a pang through your heart, but Ethan nuzzles your face (the scruff of hair on his chin only scratches a little bit), and you try to put it out of your mind.

At the diner, you wish in vain that you'll be able to start your shift without any hassles, but they show up in the form of prying eyes and curious ears, along with an enraged Michael, who tells you what you've secretly been thinking all morning: that there's no reason for you to continue to "hang around" with Brian's friends. You want to hate Michael for pointing this out, want to yell at him again for revealing your secret, but you know in your heart of hearts that you dug your own grave. Michael just supplied the headstone.

You see Brian at work, and when you go to the loft after school that day, you "see" him everywhere there, too: in the shower, nestled in an armchair feeding one another ice cream, and of course, in Brian's lovely tall oak bed that you must have been pinned to, rolled over upon, and nuzzled against more times than you can count. It's almost enough, the memories and the bed and the undeniable-but-not-unpleasant-in-the-least scent of Brian, to make you crawl back to him on your hands and knees, begging for his forgiveness. And then you think that that's what he expects, that's what everyone expects, and defiantly, you snatch up your toothbrush and high-tail it back to Ethan's apartment; back to your home.

You almost don't go to Lindsey and Melanie's eighth anniversary, soured on the very idea of coupledom, and especially when you're pretty sure nobody wants you there, but Debbie assures you they do, and threatens a number of unpleasant things if she doesn't see you there. You bring Ethan, not because you want to flaunt your new relationship, but because you want to convince yourself that it exists, that you've moved on from being Brian's charge. And it almost works, until the two of you end up standing over the same toilet in the munchers' upstairs bathroom. 

"I hope you get what you want," Brian tells you, and when your eyes meet, you're the first to flinch away. You feel guilty that Brian can stand to be so honest with you, has always been honest with you, and you couldn't even stick to a stupid set of rules that were your idea in the first place. You try not to think about the sad, hollowed look in Brian's eyes as you flush the toilet and head downstairs, as you introduce Ethan to Lindsey and Melanie (for the second time). And then you see Brian's fist flying towards Michael's face; you're not sure what Michael said, but you've got a pretty good idea. And suddenly, you can't pretend not to notice anymore. 

"Come on, let's go home," Ethan chides after Brian has been thrown off the premises and Michael taken underneath his mother's furious wing. And you're thinking so much about how Brian has nobody to run after and comfort him, now, that you very nearly take a wrong turn and end up on Tremont Street instead of the one housing Ethan's apartment complex. Because it's still not "home" to you, not yet, and maybe not ever. 

You think maybe it was a mistake leaving Brian, but it's way too soon to tell. 

\--

Michael approaches you in the diner a couple of days later, and it's tinged with Brian's influence. You tell him you want nothing to do with "Rage", mostly because it would require breathing the same air as Michael for quantifiable periods of time, but also since the characters and storylines are so largely infused with the life you've shared with Brian on Liberty Avenue. You can't separate the two, and don't even want to try, so you decide that you have to do without either. 

When you realize that your next payment for school's due date is fast approaching, though, you begin to think that maybe the extra funds "Rage" brings in aren't so off-limits after all. It's better than go-go dancing or hustling, at any rate. But your pride speaks first, and it's why you find yourself pleading with your father for next term's tuition instead. He tells you what he told you when you first came out, that basically he'll give you the world if you'll only become a straight business major. You want to tell him to fuck off, but he's still your dad and you still hope that someday he'll remember that, so you keep your head held high and walk away calmly - and empty-handed - instead.

Your mom tells you she likes Ethan, and makes a point to note how much he isn't like Brian. You tell her to stop talking about him, and secretly, it's because you don't think everything about Brian is something to strive not to be. Daphne is much more honest and palpable in her dislike of your new flame; Daphne's always liked Brian, though, nearly as much as you (once did), so you chalk it up to that and try not to ruminate on how Brian used to fuck you so hard that you'd still feel it the next morning. 

You go to plead your case to the bursar, but she tells you that there's no need, that the bill for your education has already been footed. Ethan looks confused and skeptical, but you know immediately what happened and tromp over to Brian's loft that afternoon, a million questions on your tongue. You tell him you can't take it, and he tells you simply that you can't afford not to. Brian has always been fiercely realistic to a fault. You think this is one of the many things that you both love and hate about him.

"We're not together anymore," you remind him. "You don't have to honor the agreement." You wonder vaguely if Brian realizes that you're the only one who can't honor agreements, and decide that he does and just isn't saying anything about it because Brian hates stating the obvious. You thank him once you realize that he's not going to back down, and he tells you to take your computer; he's packed it painstakingly for you, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat as you bend down to pick it up. Brian sets his feet on his new coffee table - Mies van der Rohe, which you know because you have almost as expensive taste as he does - and mouths lines of the old movie he's watching. You half-hope he'll catch your gaze again, but somehow, you think it'll weaken your resolve to leave, just like the last time, just like every time, so you slide the loft door shut quietly and trudge back to Ethan's pla- back home. 

You think maybe it was a mistake leaving Brian, and you wonder if he knows it, too.

\--

You see Brian's tall, elegant form step out of what looks like a very expensive vintage car outside the diner during your shift before school, and hurry to the kitchen so your running into each other doesn't seem too coincidental or pathetic. These days, he still makes appearances, still leaves you twenty dollar tips that are way more extravagant than necessary for a fifty cent cup of coffee. But he maintains his distance, now, only occasionally gazing at you with eyes that flicker away quickly once you feel them boring into your back and turn around to call him on it. 

Until today.

"I have a proposition for you," he begins, and clears his throat when you raise an eyebrow at that; you learned that from him, and the twinkling of his eyes tells you that you've done a good job picking it up. "A business proposition," he clarifies, and before you know it, you're haggling a hefty sum for a last-minute poster sponsored by the one organization on Liberty Avenue that you know Brian despises, but is mysteriously in cahoots with anyways. 

You mention it to Ethan in passing, and wish you hadn't once he realizes where the money is coming from to foot the bill for your latest artistic endeavor. "Maybe he's trying to win you back," he says, and it's kind of what you're thinking, too, but keep pushing it to the back of your mind. It's a foolish, naive thing to think, to hope for, and besides, you're with Ethan now - you *love* Ethan, now. You keep telling yourself this when he challenges you to prove your love to him, trying not to think about how Ethan tastes differently than Brian - not necessarily bad different, just not-Brian - when you suck him off, or how Brian never needed proof, for one reason or another.

Brian likes the poster layout you come up with, and it's obvious because he gives you constructive criticism on it. It's strange, you think, but the simple act of Brian never quite being satisfied enough to gush about anything seems incredibly significant all of the sudden. Whenever you show any of your sketches or paintings to Ethan, he's quick to lather you in compliments and flattery, so much so that it all just kind of bleeds into itself. But Brian's methodical, complimentary, and realistic all at once, and as he beckons you closer - to get a better understanding of what he's talking about, he says - it's not the only thing you notice. 

You silently thank Michael for barging in with Chinese take-out at that moment, because you're not completely sure that he wouldn't have found you and Brian in a compromising position if it had been just a couple of minutes later. It wouldn't be the first time, not by a long shot, but it would certainly be the most detrimental. Worst of all, you can't quite convince yourself that you don't want it to happen.

Ethan begins to make plans for you, for them, and you think you should be elated because that's what "real" couples do, supposedly, but you can't help but be irked at having to hang out with his friends. You feel conflicted, too, when he tosses the proffered Carnivale tickets back at Brian, slinging his arm around your shoulders and professing just how in love and busy with other, more important things you both are. Brian's mouth is quirked in a smile, but his eyes are blazing with a kaleidoscope of emotions, and you're pretty sure none of them are amusement. He watches you leave - watches Ethan kind of tug you along in the guise of a hug, rather - and you fight the urge to turn back around. 

Ethan's party is even more of a snooze than you expected, and you manage to pop off a comment that offends half of his friends, giving you leeway to leave without much protesting. You think about going home, but instead find yourself meandering towards Babylon, ticket that somebody mysteriously left with Debbie at the diner that morning in your pocket. You finger it, and it makes the decision for you. 

The Carnivale is flashy, loud, and obscene - in other words, exactly the kind of benefit Brian would throw in the Center's name while simultaneously humiliating the shit out of them. You're grinning as you realize this, and don't bother to hide it much as the man of the hour himself saunters towards you, a drink in hand and glazed ever-so-slightly with just the right amount of perspiration. He notes that you're not with "Ian", and you affirm this, and for some reason, you don't feel all that bad that this makes you happy. You think about asking Brian to dance, to top off his drink, even, but you're interrupted - you always seem to get interrupted - by a potential trick. It's your cue to take your leave, you tell him nonchalantly, but you don't head back to Ethan's pla- home - just yet. 

You wonder what Brian would have said if, instead of asking for a drink or a quick bounce out on the dance floor, you'd have told him that you think it was a mistake leaving him. 

\--

You don't hear from Brian again for a while, but you hear of him during an afternoon visit at Debbie's house. Debbie has started getting more than a little serious with Detective Horvath, and he regularly puts in appearances. You're personally happy for her - Debbie puts up with a lot of shit, you think, including taking in a scared seventeen-year-old kid after he comes out and has nowhere else to be - and she deserves a good romp in the sack and companionship as much as anybody else. 

Today, though, Brian's name comes up in conversation and you can't help but press for information. "His nephew has accused him of molestation," Horvath says grimly, and you feel your heart plummet as you listen to the details. Your fists clench on their own accord, and your entire body shakes; you don't know all that much about Brian's family, other than the fact that his father is dead and his mother a homophobic cunt. Brian rarely talked about them when you were together, and you didn't press the issue even though you were curious and still are about the dynamics of the Kinney household. But you feel inordinately angry that the people who are supposed to love Brian unconditionally can hurt him so thoroughly, without even batting an eye. 

You feel helpless, too; how can YOU do anything to help when Brian doesn't even want you around anymore (and granted, of your own choosing, but still)? And then you realize that clearing your ex-lover's name isn't necessarily the act of a lover, but can, in fact, be the work of a concerned friend. You're not sure what you and Brian are anymore, can't quite wrap your mind around the idea that you were ever "friends" (even though you confided in him some of the most intimate parts of yourself and are pretty sure he did the same) but your concern does not lessen at this realization. 

You confront Brian's asshole nephew, and his response is the typical acerbicness of somebody who grew up with role-models like his. It's not hearing the word "fag" that galls you so much, it's the ease at which it flies off the tongue of a ten-year-old who probably would have a fair chance if he weren't inundated with anti-homo propaganda all the time. So young, and already such a huge chip on his shoulder against a population that never did anything to him. You pity him, even though you think he's a little shitwad as you watch him surreptitiously slide Brian's bracelet up his pudgy arm to hide it from your accusatory gaze. You get it back, of course, and Debbie tells both he and Claire off; you watch him run up the stairs and hope, perhaps vainly, that things will be different for him someday.

Your hands are shaking as you rap on the loft door with your knuckles; you still have "your" key, but don't feel it's within your jurisdiction to just barge in whenever you feel like it. Not anymore, not even if Brian doesn't seem to have minded that much when you stopped by unannounced just the other day. 

Brian blinks back emotions when you hold out the shell bracelet like a peace offering, his eyes shining suspiciously as he murmurs a very sincere "thanks". "Anytime," you tell him, and you mean it; even though you and he aren't together the way you were - even though you weren't satisfied with how your definitions of the word differed - you don't think you can ever completely separate yourself from Brian, and you're not sure you want to try. 

You reach out to tie the piece of jewelry to Brian's wrist, because it looks naked and vulnerable without it. It makes you realize that you've very rarely seen this combination at work with Brian Kinney, and file the notion away for later when Ethan's asleep and you're staring up at the dingy ceiling, wondering if your ex-lover is doing the very same thing. Brian's pulse races beneath your fingers, and you drop his hand because it's too much. 

You stand in the doorway facing one another for what seems like hours, and it's almost a game to see who can go the longest without initiating falling into one another's arms and making out like a couple of horny teenagers. Finally, Brian clears his throat and reminds you that you have a *boyfriend*, now, and it only sounds sort of condescending but mostly sad, and all you can do is nod and turn on your heel to save face. Nobody wins this time, you think, but neither of you have really lost, either. Deciding you like the connotations of being in a draw with Brian, you take a walk around the park before heading back to Ethan's apartment. Months later, and it's still not home; you wonder if it was a mistake thinking it ever would - could - be. 

\--

You attend the Heifitz competition with Ethan and do all the good boyfriendly things for him as you wait in the wings. He kisses you and tells you in hushed, excited tones that you're his muse, that he couldn't have done it without you, and you both know it isn't true because Ethan's a self-acknowledged genius with a violin, but you let the words flow over you anyways. You have a fleeting twinge of unease at the notion that they're just that, words, but it passes when Ethan begins to play. You have heard this particular piece a number of times, now, probably too many to count, but Ethan always puts on a good show, and it's not too hard for you to imagine that it's just like the first time. 

Ethan doesn't win and is shocked, quite plainly unable to see how anybody could come face-to-face with his flourishing talent and turn it down. Again, you console him, rubbing his shoulders and assuring him that he's still brilliant. You're vaguely irritated at having to do it, even at how much Ethan's carrying on about a stupid violin concert - because surely, with his talent, there will be many, many others - and just before the comparisons to Brian can get too out of control in your head, you tune back in to what your current lover is saying. Later on, you revisit thoughts of how you never really felt obligated to give Brian praise or sympathy, for whatever reason. You liked that, you realize with startling clarity; you liked how Brian never made you give him anything. But he also never really acted like he needed you, and ... well, that's part of the reason you're in Ethan's bed instead of Brian's now, isn't it?

You don't like Ethan's agent; he's the stereotype of every smarmy, pompous behind-the-scenes character promising fame and fortune while carefully saving the fine print for after the deal has been made. But you're not surprised when you find out that he's been made an offer - Ethan's brilliant on the violin, after all - and really, not horribly amazed when one of the stipulations is his in-the-closet media status. You're still allowed to be appalled, however; "I came out of the closet once already," you tell him unhappily. "I'm not doing it again." Ethan knows about the bashing, of course; not in the intimate way that bound you and Brian together inexplicably, of course, but through newspaper clippings and your own word-of-mouth recollections. He doesn't wake up to soothingly rub your back as you ride out one of your infamous nightmares the way Brian did, either, and while you can't blame him really because he just wasn't there, part of you resents that.

Ethan tells you he's not going to sign the deal, and part of you is thrilled to hear it; the thought of him sacrificing such a huge opportunity for the ongoing openness of your relationship is so utterly romantic that you share an expensive bottle of wine that he paid for with a full day's worth of his alleged salary for and giddily talk about your life together. It's not until you're sober again and he's not around that the repercussions full seep in, and you wonder if the situation was reversed, what you would do. 

And even though you sort of agree with him, when you find out that Ethan took Brian's "nothing noble about being poor" tirade to heart and signed the contract, you're pissed. Brian has no right to interfere with your life anymore, you tell yourself, all while staring at a confirmation letter he faxed over that afternoon saying that this semester's PIFA tuition was paid in full. And before you can justify his behavior to yourself, you stalk over to Babylon to clear your head; impulsively, you head to the backroom, and aren't terribly surprised to see a head bobbing in front of Brian's crotch as he leans against a wall. You tell its owner to fuck off and he does, but curious ears tune in to hear Brian Kinney and the reigning King of Babylon duke it out. 

Brian seems vaguely amused that Ethan actually listened to him, and it infuriates you even more. "What about me?" you finally ask, almost before you can stop yourself. Brian's eyebrow quirks and you can already feel your stomach starting to plummet.

"What about you?" your ex-lover responds in kind. "You're expecting him to sacrifice his career for a piece of blond boy ass?" His eyes are blazing and you can't hold his gaze for more than a couple of seconds. "Is that your idea of true love, Sunshine?" he says mockingly; face flaming, you can only slump out of the club miserably, ignoring the couple of offers you get for a blow-job or related late-night entertainment. 

You sit in the back of the diner and stare moodily at your coffee for an hour or so, wanting to wind down before having to don the loving, supportive boyfriend role again. Perhaps the worst thing is that, in your heart of hearts, despite how much you hate that he's right, what Brian says about Ethan's career and how it affects their relationship is true. It's your mistake alone for trying to convince yourself that it wasn't. 

\--

Ethan's still riding high on the wave of being a newfound success, but he doesn't want you to think that it will affect what you have together, he insists, cradling you as you try to make yourselves comfortable in his too-cramped bathtub (Brian hates baths, you note idly to yourself when Ethan suggests the idea). You're about to point out that you've already accepted that it will change, that it has already, even, but then he pulls out a ring and slips it on your finger and you just sigh. It's not an expensive piece of jewelry, really, but the symbolism behind it is what nags at you more than anything. Ethan's in denial about the reality of your romance, and the ring is a dead giveaway. Still, it's horribly romantic, and that allows you to immerse yourself in the illusion, the way the lower half of your body is immersed in lukewarm, soapy bath water. 

Brian notices it right away at the diner, of course, and goads you about it. You're not surprised, but oddly touched that he cares enough to keep tabs on you. He leaves a $20 tip like he usually does - you wonder if he or Ethan realize how many of those have gone towards Ethan's monthly apartment rental - and tells you to buy your lover some flowers. 

You realize that afternoon that you've been so engrossed in everyone else's drama that you've completely ignored the last three messages that Daphne's left on your voice mail. You do lunch together, and for a while, it's just like old times - simple, carefree, unfettered by guilt and potential careers and love lost and gained. You invite Daphne back to the apartment - you can almost consider it a joint venture now that you've made Ethan agree to let you pay half the rent - and realize that plans to watch "Yellow Submarine" and get high have been pre-empted by a pert brunette lavishing attention on your boyfriend, all while scribbling frantically on a notepad. An interview, Ethan's invited somebody from the press over for an interview, and maybe it's just because you hated the press sticking their noses into your business after you got bashed in the head, but you feel violated having her here. It's only accentuated by Ethan proclaiming smoothly - too smoothly - that you're just his cousin, and shooing you away. 

"It's fucking unfair of him to make you pretend you're something that you're not," Daphne grumbles aptly once you're both back on the sidewalk outside. You can't tell her that you agree completely, so you tell her to mind her own fucking business, instead. Daphne just gives you a sympathetic look and invites you back to her place for ice cream, and you're relieved that she still knows you well enough to read between the lines.

Ethan leaves for an out-of-town recital after spouting off his usual romantic sphiel; you hate how jaded you are for not being able to believe it completely, but you hate even more not being able to go with him because of his dickhole agent thinking it will be bad for P.R. You turn it around in your head a little, and decide that there's really no harm in attending the concert so long as you and Ethan don't acknowledge each other or leave together, so you borrow your mom's two-seater and head off for an impromptu drive to Harrisburg, Ethan's latest CD blasting through the speakers. You hear the same stuff at the concert, so while it doesn't transfix you, you're pleased to see how well Ethan has the rest of his audience spellbound by his music. His agent may be kind of a smarmy asshole, but at least he knows talent when he sees it. 

As the crowd disperses, you fidget with your ring, wondering if you should just slip out the door unnoticed or at least attempt to make some kind of noticeable gesture that you're here. You're about to choose the latter when you see Ethan lean close to one of his admirers and whisper something in his ear. Your throat tightens as they both chuckle at something, then turn and walk off together in the opposite direction from where you're standing. 

You turn on your heel and rush back out to the car, driving the four hours back to Pittsburgh in the dark. You failed to bring along any other CDs besides Ethan's, and you can't bear to listen to that right now, so you keep the radio on for noise instead. You don't want to be back in Ethan's apartment yet either, so you head to Woody's, intent on stewing in your own juices with alcohol at the very least. 

You're not surprised to see Brian there, and while part of you is irritated because the look on his face tells you that he can pretty much guess everything with a fair amount of clarity, you're begrudgingly happy for the company. Brian gestures towards the ring with his index finger, and it reminds you of everything you've lost - not just your trust in Ethan, but whatever-the-fuck you had with Brian. But you don't want to cry in front of him, so you sigh and take a sip of your drink instead. Brian seems to get this as well and doesn't say anything else, and the two of you sit in companionable silence for several minutes. "Going home?" he asks, and his eyes register interest but not sarcasm, for once.

"Going to Daphne's," you note, and he nods almost imperceptibly. 

"I'll give you a ride," he offers, but you don't think it's such a good idea, and not the least of all because you're both pretty drunk at this point.

"No," you tell him, your throat scratchy. "I'd rather walk. Thanks for the drink, though," you tell him, and call him a cab because you're pretty sure he put away a few glasses of scotch even before you showed up. Outside, the night air is harsh against your face, and you don't realize you're crying until the water splashes icily on your cheeks. You stuff your hands in your pockets and think glumly about how this whole night was a mistake - if you hadn't gone to the concert, you could have lived with the delusion that Ethan's dreaming aloud was more than just pretty words. 

\--

You confront Ethan the next day about the guy he left with, and he assures you it was nothing, but his eyes aren't sincere. Rather, they shift away from yours when you try to search his face for confirmation, but out of desperation, perhaps, you force yourself to believe him. You even go so far as to choose a fancy bottle of wine to share with him during a shopping trip with Daphne, "to supplicate myself at his feet for thinking he was fucking around on me," you tell her, and then note that you've obviously been around Brian too long. 

Daphne quickly clarifies that Brian never fucked around, however. "He was honest from the start," she proclaims, and for some reason, it's like a small epiphany. You shove it aside once again, however, in an attempt to salvage the romance you so desperately pined for when you didn't think you were getting it with Brian. Ethan feeds you grapes and you toast his success as a future member of the New York Philharmonic, and it's almost like you'd never seen him walk away with that guy. 

That is, until he shows up at the door a few minutes later, a dozen roses clutched in his hand and recollections of his fabulous night spent with your boyfriend falling from his lips. You tell him to stay and grab your jacket, wanting to be anywhere but there at that moment, but Ethan stops you. "You need to leave," he tells his drooling admirer, and seeming to have realized the awkwardness of the situation, the guy apologizes and drops the bouquet of flowers in Justin's hands. He has tears forming in the corner of his eyes, and you feel sort of sorry for him. 

Your hands ache to be doing something at that moment, and seeing as how you can't very well tell somebody off and draw simultaneously, you settle for ripping the roses to shreds. Thorns pinch drops of blood from your fingers as they tear at your skin, but you hardly notice. "It was one stupid mistake," Ethan insists, stumbling a bit as you shove the mangled bouquet into his arms. "Look how many times you forgave Brian." And suddenly, Daphne's words ring truer now than ever.

"I never forgave Brian!" you exclaim furiously, eyes shining with infuriated tears. "He never promised me anything," you continue, and it's true, he never did. He took your virginity, saved your life, paid your schooling, and showed you in so many ways how to embrace your sexuality, to make something of yourself, more significantly than anybody else in your life, but he never promised you a goddamned thing. Ethan did; that's all he did, and since he lied, all of the things he promised were bullshit. Your entire relationship was built on a lie. 

You leave Ethan's apartment, glad, now, that you could never consider it your home, and head to Babylon on a mission. The blood on your hands has dried, and you need to do something as carnal and animalistic and non-romance-y as possible to reclaim your territory, your sense of self-worth. You're on the prowl, and it's not long before somebody takes notice; he leans in to kiss you and you turn your head away, spinning him around and making no uncertain motions about the fact that you want to fuck him. 

Moments later, his pants are down around his ankles and he's bent at the waist, groaning loudly as you plow into him. He's taller than you by at least a good six inches, which would normally insinuate that he'd top, but you realized long ago that you only ever bottomed for Brian. You never explained this to Ethan, and he never protested, and it always made you feel like you were hiding something significant from him. The intimacy of allowing somebody to enter you, the trust involved in such an act was never something you granted to anyone but Brian, though, and you wonder now if you're the only one who recognized the significance of that.

Back when you and Brian were together, when you'd established those fucking stupid "rules" that you managed to break every one of, your weekly 'date nights' gave you a chance to show him that you'd mastered the techniques and skills he'd taught you; you took pride in glancing over at him, your dick buried in some anonymous trick's ass; the student had become the teacher, and nobody liked to see Brian's approving smile more than you. His was the only face you cared to see during sex; you and Ethan fucked face-to-face a couple of times, chests pressed against one another and groaning as your fingers grasped hip bones that weren't quite as well-defined as Brian's but good enough, but the heavy weight of his legs over your shoulders, the scratchyness of his chin hair against your face always felt strangely foreign to you. Staring at the back of a tousled dark head of hair, clutching forearms strengthened by brisk violin playing rather than obsessive gym training, you could almost pretend for a moment that you were with somebody else. You always felt ashamed afterwards, would lie awake staring at the ceiling as Ethan snored next to you, and wondered if Brian ever pretended he was fucking you when he was buried inside somebody else. 

The guy you're fucking in present time lets out strangled pleas for more, harder, faster, and you ignore him, eyes transfixed on the visage of your ex-lover, now strategically placed on the other side of the backroom's beaded curtains. Brian's face, covered in a light sheen of perspiration, is bathed in blue light, and it suits him in ways that you could spend - and have spent before - hours pondering the various artistic and metaphoric symbolism behind, but instead, you make eye contact. Smouldering hazel eyes meet your hazy blue, and when you finally come, it's his face you're seeing. This time, though, it's not a mistake or anything to be ashamed of. 

\--

You mope around Daphne's apartment for nearly a month before she tells you in no uncertain terms that you need to suck it up and move on. She's surprised when you tell her that it's not Ethan you're still mooning over, it's Brian, but she accepts it with a small, satisfied smile. You think she's going to scoff at you for making "the biggest fucking mistake of your life" by leaving him, but instead, she offers suggestions, support, and stalking tips. You didn't score Brian's attention initially by sitting on your ass feeling sorry for yourself, after all, she points out, and you can't help but agree. 

You show up at Brian's agency a week or so later, internship packet in hand and a gracious smile on your face, trying to keep it from turning smug as you watch Brian struggle not to shit his pants. He manages to wait until you're both sequestered inside his private office before he explodes. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he demands, and you tell him about PIFA's graduation requirement, simpering about how Vanguard's the best agency for his purposes. Most importantly, you point out that your former relationship has nothing to do with your earning a position in the agency based on your own merit ... unless, of course, there's something he's not telling you. You bite back a grin as Brian purses his lips and signs his name on the proffered paperwork. "Don't expect any special favors," he scowls, and you flash him a smile that you have on good authority has the ability to melt ice, pleased that you've successfully assimilated yourself into his inner-sanctum.

"I never do," you say, and now, at least, it's true.

You've only ever seen Brian at work in his off-time, sitting in front of his computer and creating his latest masterpiece. It's not a surprise to you that he attracts so many clients, because he's as fucking brilliant at advertising and sex as Ethan is at the violin. You think there's something kind of right about an artist being attracted to other creative people; and even though it's not the first thing that attracted you to Brian, it probably helped to keep you interested. 

Brian knows he's a genius, too; with Ethan, you found the arrogance a tad unnerving, but when Brian agrees whole-heartedly with somebody's alleged praise of his work or sexual technique, there's something maddeningly charming about it. And yet, having a chance to work with Brian confirms for you what you assumed all along, that he's a tyrant for a boss, always expecting a polished performance and never being satisfied with "no" as an answer. You hear him threaten somebody with a pink slip on your first afternoon there and it very nearly makes you turn on your heel and run back to Daphne's in defeat, but you stick it out, determined to impress him. Because while Brian knows that the appraisal he receives is well-deserved, he still wallows in it, and you're nothing if not a good ass-kisser.

You put this talent to good use while everybody else is out to lunch and Brian is fussing over last-minute preparations for his meeting with Eyeconic Optics that afternoon. You watch his resolve slowly ebb away as you flatter him with compliments about how well he runs the place, and even though his patting you on the shoulder is rather condescending, there's something about the husky way he breathes the word "Taylor" that helps keep you on the path to your ultimate goal. He nods, impressed when you show him new versions of the boards, but when you go to press them into his hands, he stops you. "Why don't you sit in on the conference," he says, and it's not a suggestion, it's an order. "You might learn something." His appraising half-smile makes your stomach flutter; you're pretty sure it always will.

You manage to royally fuck up during said presentation, first dropping everything as if you never learned basic motor skills (even though you did - twice, even), and then being forced to undermine Brian's suggestion when the client demands your opinion. Brian tells you to get lost afterwards, and you lament that at least he won't have to see your face everyday. "Even though a part of me was hoping you eventually wouldn't mind it," you tell him. 

"What, you thought when your little romance with Paganini Jr. was over, you could come running back?" he asks, and even though you bristle at him, you're flattered and kind of relieved that your intentions weren't too well concealed. You trade a few more heated words, and then you end the conversation with a searing kiss, enough to run your tongue over his and taste the vague remains of the coffee he'd drank that morning, but not too much where he thinks he's still got the upper hand. You feel him just starting to melt into it when you pull away, smirking as you give his shoulder a condescending pat. It's as if you're saying, 'just returning the favor,' and you don't have to look down at Brian's slightly tented crotch to know that it had an affect on him, in more ways than one. 

You don't think he's surprised to find you in the doorway of his office three hours later, and when you begin the sphiel you've carefully constructed during a brief date with a large mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll at the diner, he doesn't seem all that shocked either. "I know I've made some mistakes," you breathe in lilting double-entendres, "but I think you'd be making an even bigger one not to take me back."

Brian's eyes blaze like liquid fire, but the tip of his tongue pokes out of his mouth, and his next words are playful. You assure him that the proposed "long, hard hours" would be a pleasure to work, so long as it's under him, and then he switches gears. "And you are never to play violin music in my presence again," he says in a half-whisper. The pain in his voice is raw, the walls around his heart down, and you practically bleed from the truth of his vulnerability. 

"I promise," you whisper back, and it takes him a moment to recompose himself. But then he perches himself against your side of the desk, and being that close to him again, and at eye-level with his crotch, no less, reminds you of one of your favorite things about Brian Kinney. 

You close the door to his office, and you open yourselves up to each other. And it no longer matters to you that he doesn't say, "I love you", because the way he cradles you in his arms as your calves slide around on his shoulders, the soft touch of your foreheads together after you orgasm, and the way he lets you take his face into your hands and just study the curvature of his jaw and the warmth in his eyes shows you more about love than an overused phrase or violin symphonies or picnics on the floor ever will. 

'I'm home,' you think, and this time, you know it's not a mistake.


End file.
